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Dana Rongione 02/10/2026 Dana Rongione 02/10/2026

Worry Never Sees the Plot Twist

I had the calendar memorized, not because I wanted to, but because every time I glanced at it, my heart picked up speed and my stomach tied itself into a sailor's knot.

First, a team meeting. Then a harvest service, meaning extra time on church pews, those lovely wooden torture devices designed by someone who clearly never had a back issue. Then Sunday: out the door at 8:00 a.m., two and a half hours of travel, a full day of services, and the drive home, rolling in after 8:00 p.m. Then another harvest service, more pews, and another weekend away with another long drive, an overnight stay, and yes, more pews.

Meanwhile, life refused to take a vacation. The dog still needed walking. The dishes still multiplied like rabbits. Paperwork needed filing, devotions needed writing, and events needed planning. I had been dreading it for weeks. I told myself not to, and I really tried. But my nerves, apparently, didn't get the memo.

Dana Rongione 25/09/2026 Dana Rongione 25/09/2026

When You’ve Prayed, Planted, and Still See No Fruit

I've become a bit of a field-watcher lately, and I promise it's not as strange as it sounds. As I've mentioned, there's a pasture directly behind our house here in Wales. Over the past several months, I've had a front-row seat to its entire transformation, and let me tell you, it's been quite the show.

It started out gorgeous. Tall grasses waved in the breeze like something out of a storybook, and I'd look out my window and think, Well, isn't that just lovely? It was rhythmic and calming, much like watching ocean waves. Honestly, I could have watched that field sway all day.

Then one morning, I looked out, and the grasses were gone, cut clean down. What had been lush and lovely was now dry, short, and a little sad-looking. I remember thinking, Well, that's depressing!

But the field wasn't finished with its dramatic arc. Next came the manure.

Dana Rongione 14/09/2026 Dana Rongione 14/09/2026

Can You Add That To My Cart, Lord?

This morning, Jason was baking scones (which has become a normal weekday activity in our house). When the oven timer buzzed on the Alexa app, he peeked at his golden-brown goodies and hollered, "Alexa, add two more minutes."

Now, under normal circumstances, Alexa is a fairly obedient little assistant. She usually chirps back with something like, "Two minutes added to the timer." Simple. Done. Exactly what he needed.

But this morning, Alexa apparently woke up as tired and foggy as I felt, because her response was, "I've added two minutes to the shopping list."

I'm sorry, what? You can't buy two minutes at the shop, Alexa! Believe me, if you could, I'd have a standing order.

Jason tried again. Same confused response. It took three attempts before Alexa finally caught on and actually added the time to the timer instead of the shopping list.

Dana Rongione 04/09/2026 Dana Rongione 04/09/2026

Planning Without the Panic

I sat down last week to plan the month ahead, calendar app open, herbal tea in hand, feeling almost productive. Then I actually looked at the upcoming schedule: two back-to-back travel weekends, a harvest service sandwiched between them, two large community events to plan, and of course, a handful of appointments that always seem to multiply the moment I schedule just one.

My first honest thought wasn't "Lord, what an opportunity." It was "Lord, I am going to be wrecked. This month is going to kill me!"

Here's the thing: That thought wasn't wrong. I know my body. I know that travel weekends cost me days of recovery that healthy people don't have to budget for. I know my pain will spike, my energy will crater, and I'll probably need a nap disguised as "quiet time" more than once. All of that is true. I know it from experience.

Dana Rongione 02/09/2026 Dana Rongione 02/09/2026

Stamping Out Bad Thoughts

Some mornings, my mind resembles the world's least efficient office. I sit at my desk, herbal tea nearby, Bible open, and a stack of unruly papers piles up in front of me. Except the papers are not bills, book ideas, or that mysterious note I wrote three weeks ago that now appears to say "Buy turnips for dragon." No, the papers are thoughts.

"You are failing."

"You will always be sick and will never get better."

"You have messed up too much."

"God has forgotten you."

"This situation is impossible."

"No one wants to read your pathetic attempts at writing."

And suddenly, my imaginary office has an urgent backlog.

As I considered Philippians 4:8 this morning, my mind brought up an amusing image (as it tends to do). I pictured a giant, old-fashioned librarian's red rubber stamp.